Looking a Little Skyward
by Sula Bulungi
Summary: In the chaos of battle, Harry is inexplicably flung into a dark and broken future. No one is the same here; Some are lost, Some are dead. Some strive to hold onto the light despite the consuming dark, and here Harry learns how brave his friends truly are.
1. Chapter 1

This is quite a weird one. But it's Harry Potter so it was destined to be strange from the start. Good old HP, my first literary love! I consider myself an enthusiast. I don't quite know where this fits into Rowling's storyline, per se, but by the end it ought to come back around and squeeze back in so that her resolution is still applicable. Everything is going to fit together, sort of. Just trust me and we'll see where it goes, eh? As usual, please forgive any mistakes, whether they be in spelling, grammar, plot, or elsewhere. I do try to keep things straightforward, but sometimes I completely overlook a plot mistake that confuses everyone and makes the story so much less enjoyable... let me know if that happens. I sincerely hope it doesn't.

Disclaimer: These characters and this world are, without question, not mine. They're the creations of JK Rowling, obviously, and I take no credit for anything aside from the story I've placed them in.

Looking a Little Skyward

Harry awoke to a jarring headache, throbbing behind his old scar.

"Ah…" he groaned, pressing his palm against his forehead.

He lay there for a moment, listening to his heartbeat and heaving long, slow breaths. Then, as the world clarified around him and the ache in his head diminished, he opened his senses to his surroundings. He could hear the distant whisper of wind in trees, echoing in the cool, moist air that lay heavily around him. He was sprawled out on his back, he realized, on a very uneven surface; something was jabbing painfully against his ribs.

And then he remembered.

Voldemort.

With a ragged gasp, he hoisted himself to his knees, fumbling frantically around him for his wand. His vision was blurred; it seemed he'd lost his glasses, too.

"Damn!" he hissed, opening his bleary eyes wide and staring around him. It was dark, and the silvery light bathing his surroundings told him that a full or nearly full moon gleamed overhead. The ground beneath him was rocky and pressed hard. He guessed that he was crouched in some sort of road.

He had started to drag himself to his feet, when hoarse voices shattered the still night.

"Lumos!" They cried, and two points of light blossomed before him.

Harry staggered back, falling to the ground with a startled shout.

One of the voices rang out, husky and menacing. "Get up, you piece of filth!"

What the _hell _do you think you're doing here?" another voice said. "You murdering scum should know bet—"

The person, whoever he was, fell silent mid-sentence.

"I'm not… I didn't… I…" Harry stammered, stunned.

"It can't be…" said one of the figures looming over him.

"Oh my God…" rasped the other, and Harry thought he saw them both reel back.

He found his voice. "I'm sorry!" he blurted. "I don't know how I got here, but I swear I'm not going to hurt anyone! Please, just let me… explain…"

He realized then what he ought to have realized from the beginning.

He had no idea where he was. He didn't know how he'd gotten here. He couldn't explain. He had no wand and he couldn't see properly.

And these people had his at wandpoint, ready to blast him apart.

He had no idea what to do.

Then, out of the darkness, a low, third voice echoed, and it was charged with the shock and bewilderment that filled his own jumbled mind. A voice that sounded oddly familiar.

"H-Harry?"

He stared around him, blinded by the lighted wandtips before him. "Er… Yeah?"

The wands fell away, dropping to the sides of the wizards who held them. Harry blinked owlishly, holding himself very still.

"No… No, this can't be happening…" the familiar voice whispered faintly. Harry tried to place that voice; he knew that he knew that voice… But the adrenaline and fear that flooded him coupled with the dull ache in his head foiled coherent thought. All he could think about was not dying at the hands of these shadows.

"Please…" he said, but he couldn't think of anything else. He didn't even know what he was pleading for. To his shock, however, a tall, dark figure swept around the two that stood over him, stepped to Harry's side, and knelt.

"Harry… Harry Potter…" the man breathed. Harry felt extremely uncomfortable. He leaned away from the figure, but didn't dare the move. He tried to unobtrusively feel about for his wand or his glasses, or anything, for that matter, that he could use to defend himself. The kneeling man noticed.

"Accio glasses," he whispered, and Harry glimpsed a small, dark shape hurtle to the man's indistinct hand. To his surprise, he pressed them into Harry's hand.

Harry's brow knit suspiciously. He felt the glasses in his hands, recognized the chips and bends along the frames and knew that they were indeed his. He held them for a moment, hesitant, then, deciding that there was nothing else for it, shoved them onto his nose. The world jumped into focus.

The figure beside him lit his wand with a quiet "Lumos", and the immediate area was illuminated by a brighter white light. Harry turned, and met the eyes of...

"Mr. Weasley?" he cried.

Astonished, he looked up at the figures above him, now recognizable in the dim glow of wandlight. Charlie and Bill Weasley stood over him, gaping at him with the strangest expressions on their faces…

"What's happened?" Harry asked, alarmed by the sadness and fear and their eyes. "Where…"

Then Harry stopped, noticing something strange.

Bill's hair was cut short. Harry had never seen him without his long ponytail, without his fang earring, which, Harry realized, was also strangely absent. And there was something else… his face, wrinkled by scars, was different…

Harry's gaze darted to Charlie's astonished face, and he saw the same change in his wide brown eyes. His hair was messy, unkempt, his face haggard… If Harry didn't know it to be impossible he would have believed that Charlie looked… that he was…

Then, Harry met the twinkling eyes of Mr. Weasley, and his stomach flipped.

He was older. Much older.

Mr. Weasley's normally vivid red hair was entirely white, sticking out from his temples like cotton. His face was wrinkled and his shoulders were hunched. He was thinner than Harry could remember seeing him…

Harry fell backward, heaving great gasps.

"Wh-what… how… Oh God…"

Mr. Weasley met his gaze unflinchingly, and seized Harry's arm in a deceptively strong grip.

"Are you Harry Potter?" he hissed harshly. Harry swallowed. He'd never seen Mr. Weasley like this before… he'd never directed this hard, piercing gaze at Harry…

"Y-yes!" he stammered. "Of course I am, Mr. Weasley! Don't you know me?"

"During Harry's first year at Hogwarts, what happened at the Halloween feast?" Mr. Weasley demanded.

"I-I didn't go to the feast… I was at a Deathday Party with Ron and Hermione… Mr. Weasley, what's going on?"

"Who was Harry Potter's true godfather?" Bill growled, eyeing Harry suspiciously.

"Sirius Black," Harry responded automatically. "But you _know _that, Bill!"

"Who was the Potters' Secret-Keeper? Who betrayed Harry Potter and his family?" Charlie asked, his expression unreadable.

"Peter Pettigrew!" Harry cried angrily. "Wormtail! He sold us out to Voldemort and framed Sirius. Why are you doing this? I'm me, I swear I'm me! Now tell me what's going on!"

No one said anything for a long moment. Harry could hear his heart thrumming in his chest.

"I don't know what to think…" Mr. Weasley finally said, staring at Harry as if he'd never seen him before. He lifted a wrinkled hand and gently brushed the dark hair away from his forehead, stroking the thin scar with a feather-soft touch. "I don't know what to believe…"

"L-let's take him to Fred and George, Dad," Charlie murmured. His voice sounded unusually wobbly. "They'll know… if anyone will know, it'll be them."

"No," Bill said quietly. "If anyone will know, it will be—"

"_Bill,_" Charlie cut in. "We can't do that to him. Not after everything he's been through… everything he's lost."

"If anyone deserves to be a part of this, it's him!"

"He isn't strong enough! This could push him over the edge!"

"He would take that risk! You know he would!"

"Boys," Mr. Weasley interrupted. "That's enough. We'll take this boy to Fred and George. For now, that's our best option."

Bill and Charlie nodded silently, conceding to their father's decision.

Harry didn't understand much of what they'd said, but he was surprised by how much it stung to be referred to as 'this boy'. He was more confused than he could ever remember being. He was lost, alone, and apparently thought to be an imposter. And now that he could see, he noticed his wand poking out of Charlie's left pocket. He was unarmed and utterly helpless.

But it sounded as if the Weasleys were taking him to see Fred and George. Harry allowed a little hope to sparkle in him: maybe they would believe him. Maybe they would believe that he was really _really _Harry Potter. He had to hope that they would.


	2. Chapter 2

This is still not my world. It belongs to JK Rowling. Enjoy the newest installment!

Chapter 2

They Apparated with a loud _pop_. Bill's strong grip on Harry's shoulder had dragged him along to… wherever they'd come. Two more cracks announced Charlie and Mr. Weasley's arrivals.

Looking around, Harry found himself in a small, minimally upholstered room, illuminated by candlelight. Shelves lined every wall, and each was bursting with countless devices and contraptions, whistling and blinking and bouncing.

"Dad!" a boisterous voice cried.

"It's four in the morning! What are you doing here?"asked another.

Harry turned as much as Bill's firm handle would allow, and was met by the sight of the twins.

Like their father and brothers, Fred and George looked different. Older. Their auburn hair gleamed in the candlelight, framing faces that were squarer, firmer, than Harry remembered them. A familiar mischievous light glimmered in their matching brown eyes, but beneath that, he glimpsed something else… weariness, sadness… subdued grief that Harry never thought he would see in those grinning faces.

Harry's muddled mind began to put together to pieces.

He stood still, waiting for the twins to notice him and greet him with the hostility that their family had met him with. And notice him they did.

George's face went paper-white, and Fred sank to a wooden stool, his hand over his mouth.

A long silence stretched, in which the Weasleys stood around him and stared. Harry felt a blush creep up under his skin, and he twisted his fingers nervously. He swallowed a few times, then choked out a greeting.

"Uh… hi."

"Hi," Fred mumbled faintly, looking a little sick. George shook his head, eyes wide.

"Harry…" he said, as if tasting the name. "Harry Potter, back at long last…"

"We found him in the middle Cheney Road, north of the Burrow," Arthur explained.

"We don't know…" Bill started, glancing sideways to meet Charlie's eyes, "We don't know if he's… him."

Fred visibly pulled himself together, pushing unruly hair out of his eyes and sucking a deep breath between his teeth. George nodded once, eyes trained on Harry.

"And you want us to tell you if this is really Harry."

Harry's hands closed into fists. "Listen—"

But he was cut off by George, who stepped right up to him, looked him straight in the eye, and said…

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

For a moment, Harry dumbly stared back at George. Then, a tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Mischief managed."

George nodded, grinning. "Test Number One: Passed."

Charlie, Bill, and Mr. Weasley exchanged confused glances.

Fred pulled himself to his feet, rubbing his hands together anticipatorily, and moved toward one of the shelves against the wall. As he strode across the room, Harry noted an awkward lilt to his gait and realized after a moment that Fred was limping. He bit his lip, frowning.

"How's the leg, little brother?" Charlie asked nonchalantly. Harry could see the concern in his eyes.

"Not so bad," Fred responded distractedly, rifling through the gadgets on the shelf. "I think we've finally got the prosthetic right. Only took six prototypes, eh Georgie?" He leaned down and thumped his calf gingerly, and it echoed with a distinctly un-flesh-like sound.

Harry desperately wanted to ask what had happened, but bit his tongue. First, he needed to prove who he was. Questions would come later. And Harry didn't doubt that there would be a lot of them.

"Aha!" Fred cheered, holding aloft a tiny vial of sparkling green liquid. He shuffled toward Harry, and George stepped back to let him near. Summoning a miniscule spoon from another of the shelves, Fred uncorked the vial.

"Now Harry, or Vile Imposter, whichever you turn out to be, this tasty stuff…" he tipped a single drop of the liquid onto the spoon, "is a fairly valuable substance."

"Invention of ours, of course. Runs for a hundred and twenty Galleons a pop!" George chimed in.

"It's not quite a truth serum, because we all know that's illegal," Fred and George rolled their eyes, "But it's… rather close. You see, this stuff doesn't make you tell the truth. It lets us _see_ the truth."

"All you need to do," George explained, "is stick that in your mouth. I promise, it won't do you any harm. And if you really are Harry Potter, you know that the word of a Weasley is rock-solid."

Harry nodded. Before he let himself consider it, he seized the little spoon and poked it into his mouth. It tasted like eggplant.

"Now look at us," Fred commanded, and Harry looked up to see them both staring intently at his eyes. George plucked his glasses from his face.

It was a long moment before anything happened. Harry was starting to feel self-conscious when suddenly, without warning, he plunged into the past with a gut-wrenching tug.

He was back on the Hogwarts grounds, eyes locked on the figure before him. Voldemort stood tall, laughter in his crimson eyes, and Harry knew that Death Eaters surrounded him on all sides. His wand lay useless on the grass, yards away from where he stood. Fear throbbed in his veins. Harry knew that he was going to die.

"Give in, child," Voldemort hissed. "Give in, and I will grant you a quick and painless death."

"Never," Harry answered, his voice low and unsteady.

"I had hoped you would give me the pleasure of killing you slowly, Harry." He let out a piercing, cold laugh that chilled the misty air, and Harry steeled himself for the assault. Voldemort trained his wand at Harry's chest, narrowed his snake-like eyes, and hurled a whispered curse.

Harry was jolted by a great weight crashing into him, and he rolled on the grass, gasping and disoriented. It was a moment before he could clear the fireworks from his vision and lift himself off the ground, looking around to see what had hit him…

Ron lay on the grass, arms curled around his middle, staring with wide eyes at the starry sky above him. An iron fist clamped around Harry's heart.

"_Ron!_" he cried, and scrambled to his side.

"H-Harry…" Ron stammered, turning his wide blue eyes to meet his gaze. "A-are y-you o-ok-kay?"

"Ron, you idiot!" Harry sobbed, choking at the sight of the blood that leaked out between Ron's fingers. "You stupid git, why would you _do_ that?"

"H-had to s-save y-you, Harry. I w-will alw… always s-save you, doesn't matter h-how ha… hard you f-fight…"

"_Damn it!_"Harry hissed. "Damn it, Ron!"

Ron closed his eyes, breathing in short, pain-filled pants. A smile played on his lips. "'t's okay…" he murmured. "I-I'm fine. N-now b-beat that s-son of a bitch, will you?"

Harry blinked past the tears in his eyes. Ron released his grip on his bleeding wound… and oh, God, it was bleeding… and moving his hand across the ground beside him, gripping something. He pressed it into Harry's hands.

It was his wand.

"S-see you when it's f… finished, Harry," Ron said, and Harry didn't want to know what he meant by that. He took the wand in hand, looked up…

And hardly had time to process the image of seven Death Eaters, encircling them. He opened his mouth to fire a curse, but they were too quick… seven voices shrieked incantations, seven spells hit him at once, seven waves of power enveloped him…

And he was back in the little room, staring into the eyes of Fred and George.

They stared at him, identical frowns on identical faces, and Harry saw tears sparkling in two pairs of brown eyes. He felt them on his own face, too.

Silently, sadly, they both nodded.

"It's him."

The other Weasley's stared at them in surprise. It took a moment for them to find their voices.

"But… how can you know, son?"

"You just looked into his eyes for a few minutes; how can you tell from that?"

"Are you sure?"

George turned to face him family, inconspicuously dashing at his eyes. In an uncharacteristically solemn voice, he spoke.

"Dad, Charlie, Bill, sorry but we can't explain the process to you. It's still under development, and to be frank, it could get you into a hell of a lot of trouble with basically anyone, Death Eater or no."

"You'll just have to believe us," Fred said, blinking rapidly. "You'll have to trust us when we say that this is Harry Potter."

Arthur stood silent for a moment, eyes darting between his twin sons and Harry, who stood uncomfortably in the center of the room. He clenched his hands together to stifle the trembling. Mr. Weasley stepped toward him again, and Harry prepared himself to answer more identifying questions, to defend himself if necessary. But Mr. Weasley didn't speak. He didn't even pull out his wand. He grasped Harry's shoulders in his old hands and pulled him toward him, enveloping him in his arms.

Harry stood still for a moment, shocked by the unexpected hug.

"Harry, my boy," Mr. Weasley mumbled, and Harry was further surprised to feel sobs shaking the old man's frame. "You've come back to us…"

And Harry knew then what it felt like to have a living, breathing father. He wrapped his arms around Arthur's narrow shoulders and held him tightly, not knowing what to say. He didn't think he could have spoken anyway.

They broke apart after a long moment, and Harry was suddenly pelted by a series of heavy thumps to the back.

"Sorry, Harry," came the murmured apology of Bill. "You gave us such a shock, and we really couldn't have known you weren't a Death Eater in disguise, you know."

"After all," Charlie agreed rather sheepishly, "You've been gone for years, Harry. Everyone has considered you dead for a long time now… well, almost everyone…"

"Dead?" Harry repeated numbly.

Charlie's gaze dropped to his shoes. "Well… yeah," he answered sadly. "There was even a service, about a year ago. It was lovely… Terrible, but lovely. I thought Mum would never stop crying."

Harry tried to suppress the bone-deep guilt that filled him at the thought of an inconsolable Mrs. Weasley. He felt his cheeks burning with shame.

"I can hardly believe it!" Arthur cried, staring at Harry fondly, and Harry finally glimpsed the jolly man he knew in this old man. "It seems so impossible, having you back after all this time… stupendous! Truly stupendous!"

"It's incredible, all right," George agreed, shaking his head. He was very pale, Harry realized, and his wand shook in a tightly fisted hand. He hoped George wasn't about the pass out.

"This is…" Charlie stammered, "It's… wow!"

"Eloquent, brother," Fred murmured. Charlie elbowed him in the ribs, then caught his arm as he teetered.

"But… how?" asked Bill, and the room fell silent. All eyes turned to the twins.

George met Harry's eyes. He stared hard at him with an unreadable expression, and Harry felt Fred's eyes on him as well. They turned away after a moment, exchanged a pregnant glance, and nodded.

"Harry's traveled forward in time," Fred said.

"He's come straight from the battle that we thought had killed him," George added.

"This is seventeen-year-old Harry…"

"… the same Harry that left us, seven years ago."

Harry blinked at the Weasleys. They stood around him, staring right back.

His brain reeled. The idea had occurred to him earlier; he'd been almost certain that he had time traveled from the moment he'd met these older Weasleys. The clues around him were impossible to misinterpret. But to hear it out loud, confirmed… it was a bit of a shock, in any case. His jaw flapped dumbly for a moment, before his mouth caught up to his brain.

"I… I thought that might be it," he muttered in a shaky voice.

The Weasleys simply stared at him.


	3. Chapter 3

These are still the brainchildren of JK Rowling. Only the story itself is mine.

Chapter 3

The Burrow was silent and dark, lit only by the merry flames crackling in the living room fireplace. In the dim glow, Harry saw that very little had changed in the time he'd apparently been gone. The worn rugs strewn across scuffed wooden floors, the odd assortment of books that lined crooked bookshelves, the cheerfully mismatched furniture covered in soft pillows and tattered throws… Harry couldn't remember ever feeling so relieved to be here. The knot of fear and tension that had been swelling in his chest since he'd awakened in the road eased, a little.

"I'll just go and fetch Molly," Arthur murmured, draping his cloak over the arm of a chair. "Have a seat, Harry. Make yourself at home." He smiled at Harry, patting him on the shoulder, and crossed to the staircase. Harry watched him ascend into the darkness, leaving him alone.

He sank onto the sofa, suddenly very aware of how tired he was. He hadn't slept since… well, since seven years ago. He chuckled wryly at the thought.

Thoughts swirled dizzily in his exhausted mind. He had traveled forward in time. He had skipped more than seven years of time, judging by the calendar pinned above the hearth, and based on the behavior of the Weasley's, things weren't going so well in the wizarding world. He hadn't defeated Voldemort. He had abandoned them all, leaving them to fight for their lives by themselves. Guilt gnawed at his insides.

Then, there was Ron.

Fred and George's potion had mercilessly reminded him of the horror that he'd witnessed, prior to the attack that brought him here. Images of the last time he'd seen his best friend flashed before his waking eyes. His stomach roiled ominously; he clamped a hand over his mouth.

Ron had been dying. There was no question of that. Harry had seen it in his glazed eyes, heard it in his faint, breathless voice… seen it oozing between his shaking, white fingers.

Harry couldn't let himself believe that Ron had survived.

But oh, how he wanted to.

He hadn't been brave enough to ask Ron's father or brothers what had happened; he hadn't been able to spit out the words. He couldn't bring himself to say that name aloud, because asking the question would inevitably bring an answer, and he could say with complete confidence that he didn't want to hear the answer he was almost certain he would receive.

He didn't even notice the tears that dampened his grimy cheeks.

"Harry," came a soft voice from behind him, and he turned to see Mr. Weasley, standing on the landing. Beside him, wrapped in a quilted dressing gown, shoulders hunched and hands clamped before her, stood Ron's mother, Molly.

Her hair was a little whiter, and her arms were a little frailer, bit the same loving blue eyes sparkled in that warm face as she crossed the living room and enveloped him in her arms.

"Mrs. Weasley," Harry mumbled into her hair. "I'm…"

"Arthur told me what's happened," she said. "He explained to me that you're you, and I believe him."

"I'm sorry…"

Mrs. Weasley's arms tightened around him.

"Don't you apologize," she whispered into his ear. "Don't you dare apologize to me, Harry."

She pulled back, taking his hands in hers and gazing up into his eyes. Her eyes sparkled wetly in the firelight.

"I am so glad you're here, dear," she said, smiling sadly. "I've missed you so much… every day, I thought about you. Every day. Oh, my Harry…"

Harry tried to ignore the golf ball lodged in his throat. Mrs. Weasley had always treated him like a son, but the sincere, guileless love he saw in her eyes and felt in her arms meant more to him than he could ever describe. More than he could contain. He nodded, unable to speak.

Molly nodded too. He didn't have to speak.

"Now," she said, suddenly all business. "Let's get you something to eat, shall we? A little tea? Then to bed; you look exhausted, you poor boy."

Harry swallowed. "I… I'm not actually v-very hungry, Mrs. Weasley," he stammered. "I'm just… I'm just tired."

"Yes, of course," she agreed, pushing him back into the sofa with surprising strength. "You just have a seat here and I'll bring you a hot cup of tea, that will settle the nerves, no? A few biscuits, hmm? Come along Arthur, you can help…"

Before Harry could voice a protest, he found himself surrounded on all sides by a variety of cakes and biscuits, clutching a warm mug in his shaking hands as Mrs. Weasley fussed with his jacket.

"Are you cold, Harry? Or too warm? I can fetch a quilt from upstairs…"

"Molly," Arthur said, taking his wife's hand, "Let's leave Harry be, for now. He'll be fine." Arthur met Harry's gaze and winked. Harry tried to express his gratefulness in a strained smile. He wasn't sure he succeeded.

"Of course," Mrs. Weasley said. "You stay down here as long as you want, Harry. And when you're ready, go on up to Percy's room, it's made up for visitors."

"Thank you, Mrs. Weasley."

"And if you lay out your clothes, I'll have them washed for you by morning, dear. You can borrow some of Percy's pajamas, I'm sure you'll find a pair in his dresser. Such a well organized boy…"

"Come along, Molly," Arthur said, leading her toward the stairs. "Goodnight, Harry. Don't hesitate to wake us if you need anything."

"Goodnight, Harry, dear," Mrs. Weasley said quietly, smiling.

And Harry was alone.

Ron's room was the same as he remembered it.

In the silver moonlight, the orange walls took on a rusty grayish-red sort of hue. The shelves were still loaded with all kinds of odd things; the tank on the window sill that had once held a fat frog now stood empty. Harry sank onto the bed, eyes roving the silent room. His mind was oddly blank.

Harry had tried to sleep. He'd lain in the comfortable warmth of Percy's bed downstairs, staring at the ceiling, willing himself to drift into merciful slumber, but with no luck. So he rose, and without consciously deciding to, shuffled up the steps to the attic room. He couldn't say what drew him here. But here he sat.

A light tapping disturbed the quiet and snapped him back to awareness. Looking to the window, Harry glimpsed a small, dark shape fluttering outside, blurred by the moonlit mist.

He hesitated only for a moment. Then he rose, strode across the room, and hoisted the window open.

The little thing darted in immediately, taking up a shrill cry as it zoomed around the ceiling. Harry laughed as it wheeled toward his head and buried itself in his hair.

"Hey, Pig!" he said, catching the tiny owl in his fist and pulling him down to peer at him. The little bird hooted eagerly, squirming in Harry's grasp. "Hold still, you! Let me say 'hello'!"

Pig escaped Harry's grasp, but immediately settled himself on his arm. With an affectionate tweet, he presented his little leg to Harry. Attached was a single, tightly wound length of parchment.

"What's this?" he asked as he untied the parchment. The little owl quivered with excitement.

Along the length of the scroll was an address, written in the smallest of handwriting. He squinted at it, moving a little to catch the dim light, and made out the name. _Ginny Weasley_.

Harry felt his eyes widen. He hadn't even thought about Ginny… how could he have forgotten about her? He wondered what had become of her in the last seven years. She was clearly alive, that much was certain, and Harry breathed a sigh of immense relief. But where was she? Not at the Burrow. Harry had peered in her room on his way to Ron's; it was as empty as the rest of this big house, aside from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley in their bedroom. Harry glared piercingly at Pig.

"You've brought this to the wrong person, you daft bird," he murmured. "How many times has Ron told you to bring letters to the… addressee…"

Harry stopped mid-sentence. He'd almost forgotten.

Pig nipped at his fingers. Harry looked at the owl. Pig looked back.

"Y-you must be hungry," he mumbled distractedly. "I'm sure there are some owl treats downstairs…"

Harry made his way down the stairs, absently noting the gray light of dawn on the horizon as he passed the windows. He stepped silently into the living room, looking around for the jar of owl treats the Weasleys used to keep here. Pig's little feet tapped up and down his arm as he wiggled impatiently.

"Just hold on," Harry sighed. "I'm looking, I'm look—"

Harry's voice died in his throat.

His eyes had fallen upon the famous Weasley clock, situated on the mantle. He had automatically sought the second longest hand, the straight, blue one with a spade shaped tip, without thought. Just like he had every time he passed through here, for seven years. Just like he had that morning… twenty hours ago for him. Seven years ago for the rest of the world. He found that familiar hand without thought, and realized two things with a mind-numbing wave of astonishment.

First, that the hand was still there. Still pointing. Still attached. Still alive.

Second, that the hand that belonged to Ronald Bilius Weasley was currently pointing to 'Mortal Peril'.

He was out the door before Pig knew what had happened.


	4. Chapter 4

These are still JK Rowling's brainchildren. Only the story itself is mine.

Chapter 4

"Oh God, Oh God, Oh God…" Harry babbled, sprinting for the road. He stopped dead, panting, looked around wildly, and wheeled back toward the house. Then he turned back toward the road, a frustrated snarl rumbling in his throat.

"_What can I do?_" he thought frantically, tripping across the garden. _"Where do I go?"_

He couldn't think straight. His exhausted mind was reeling; he thought that his heart might have ascended into his throat and now sat thrumming there, cutting off the cool dawn air and beating hectically against his Adam's apple.

He brought his hands to his face, then realized there was something clutched in his hand. Ginny's letter. He remembered squinting at it a moment before, in the dim light of Ron's old room, and seeing an address printed there, beneath her name.

"I'll go see Ginny!" he told himself aloud, seizing the idea. "She'll help! She'll know!"

Without a second's hesitation, he ran out to the road, looked once in either direction, and flung his right arm into the air.

An enormous BANG fractured the calm, and the Knight Bus screeched to a halt before him. A young man stepped out, but it wasn't Stan Shunpike. This fellow was rather little and squat, with a mop of messy dark hair and a five-o'clock shadow that covered most of his face.

"Welcome to the-" he began tonelessly, but Harry cut him off.

"I know, I know! Take me to this address," he shoved the parchment under the man's stubby nose, "right away, and I'll tip you extra!"

The man eyed the address shrewdly. "How much extra, mate? There's a queue, you see. All these folks waiting to get where they're going, have been all night, you know…"

Harry fished around in his pocket and pulled out a handful of gold. "Take it!" he barked, "And get me there NOW!"

The man smiled widely now, fingering the gold Harry had shoved roughly into his chest, and said in a simpery, sugary sort of voice, "Of course, sir! Right away, sir!" And he turned and shouted the address to Ern, the ancient driver. The little old man nodded unsteadily and slammed on the gas.

"Have a seat sir, we'll be there in just a moment," the conductor beamed, pocketing the money.

Harry sank to the edge of the nearest bed, uneasily fingering the letter still clutched in his hands. He realized, with a start, that Pigwidgeon remained planted on his shoulder, looking ruffled and disoriented, but thrilled to be on a journey with Harry. Harry absently stroked the little owl's wings, smoothing the rumpled feathers.

Hours seemed to pass before the Knight Bus lurched to a gut-wrenching halt, skidding dangerously on the dirt road it had materialized on. Harry noticed, as he leapt from the bus without so much as a 'thank you' to the aged Ern or the grinning conductor, that the eastern horizon was lined with a watery yellow glow. As he looked around him, the bright sun breached the horizon and illuminated the land with golden light.

He stood at the gate of a little white house, surrounded on all sides by wide, green fields, which seemed to have sprung directly out of a fairy tale. A heavy thatched roof hunched roundly over four whitewashed walls, which were rough and uneven, but looked sturdy. Square, paneled windows, sparkling in the new daylight, were situated on either side of a thick wooden door that seemed to welcome him to the tidy doorstep. The garden was wild and untamed, but comforted Harry with same disorganized cheerfulness that the garden at the Burrow had always greeted him with. Everything about this little cottage made Harry breathe easily in the quiet, cool morning, despite the terror that throbbed in his chest like a great gnawing animal.

Just as his hand fell upon the gate, the wooden door opened with a creak. Harry fell into the hedges, holding his breath.

From the shadowy doorway came a young child, clad in green pajamas that didn't quite cover his skinny ankles. In the early morning sunlight, his bright copper hair gleamed like embers. He skipped awkwardly down the front steps, laughing and looking behind him at a fat, ginger cat, which ambled out behind him, looking displeased. The child fell onto his back in the garden and curled his little fingers in the tall grass that surrounded him, beaming at the sky. His bright eyes sparkled, and Harry felt a tickle of familiarity.

The feeling dissipated like smoke when Harry's eyes fell upon the woman who emerged from the doorway. She was wrapped in an old flowered dressing gown, her hair was sleep-tousled and tangled, and her eyes were swollen with sleep, but Harry recognized her the moment the golden sunlight fell upon her auburn locks.

Ginny.

"What are you doing, you goose?" she said, fixing the child with a reproachful stare. "Do you know what time it is?"

The child simply giggled in response, rolling onto his stomach and burying his pale face in the grass.

"Earlier and earlier, every day," she muttered to herself, stepping onto the grass with bare feet. "And a lot of help you are, Crookshanks, letting him do whatever he wants!" She nudged the fat cat with her foot as she passed, and Harry suddenly recognized that squashed face.

_Hermione's cat_, Harry thought. _Maybe that means Hermione is here, too._ He smiled a little. Hermione would help him, he was sure of it. He almost stepped out from behind the hedge, almost revealed himself to Ginny and the child, but inexplicable nervousness kept him rooted to the ground. He clenched his teeth, watching the woman in the garden with a growing sense of dread.

She leaned over the boy and flipped him onto his back, scowling down at him in a theatrical manner, and pointed a dramatic finger at him.

"You, boy, are an insatiable, incomprehensible, and impossible! If you don't learn to sleep a little later, you're going to push us over the edge!"

"Over the edge?" the little boy echoed, grinning. He had clearly heard this speech before.

"Yes, over the edge!" Ginny cried, bending over him to tickle him. "Your father can't manage you, I can't manage you… any day now we'll decide to ship you away to Greenland and be done with you!"

"Not Greenland!" he shrieked between heaves of laughter. "No, no!"

"Then sleep, child, sleep! Six a.m. is no time for a child of your lineage to be conscious! Weasleys sleep until their mothers drag them out of bed. Uncle Fred and Uncle George would be astonished! Appalled!"

The child only laughed harder.

The warmth that has swelled in Harry's chest when he'd seen Ginny was rapidly congealing into cement. He knew the reason, he knew why he felt suddenly sick. It lay giggling in the lawn, on the other side of the hedge.

Ginny had moved on.

Harry closed his eyes, trying to ignore the jealousy that rose in his stomach like bile. He tried to discard the sadness that gripped him, tried to suppress the images that flashed before his eyes, of Ginny in a long, white dress beside him, of a child with her bright red hair and, perhaps, his vivid green eyes…

He swallowed the sorrow. This was no time to drown in jealousy. '_Mortal Peril'_, he reminded himself, thinking of Ron.

Then, he heard his name.

"Harry, come inside!"

His heart skipped. Shock tingled in his fingers and feet. She'd seen him, lurking creepily in the bush! She'd caught him watching her, her and her happy son, whose father probably waited somewhere inside the little house for his wife and son…

"No, Harry! No!" Ginny cried from the garden. "I said no! What have I told you about squeezing the slugs?"

Harry looked down at his hands. They were thoroughly empty of slugs.

"Ugh, that's disgusting," Ginny murmured, and Harry heard her whisper a little cleaning spell. Her footsteps sounded on the lawn, along with the quick, shuffling steps of the little boy. And suddenly, Harry understood.

The _child_ was Harry.

'_She named her son after me,'_ he thought numbly. He flushed with embarrassment at the mere idea. He didn't deserve that honor; he, who peered covetously at young mothers and their children through bushes…

"Harry," Ginny said again, and he let out a gasp, purely on reflex.

She turned suddenly in a flash of whirling red hair, her wand trained at the hedge behind which Harry hid.

"Who's there?" she hissed dangerously.

Harry, panicking, remained silent.

"Come out where I can see you, and identify yourself, or I will hex you. Come out, _now_."

Harry obeyed.

Ginny's eyes grew round. Her mouth fell open.

Harry felt his tongue unlock itself. "I know you're not going to believe it, but it's really me, it's really Harry. And I can't prove it to you, but your brothers believe me, your brothers and your parents, and Pig is here with me, see?" Harry gestured wildly toward the little bird, nearly knocking him off his shoulder. He could hear the hysteria in his own voice, but couldn't seem to stop babbling. "You have to believe me, Gin, I swear I'm me, I'll do anything to prove it to you, answer any question—"

"Shut up," she said, and Harry obliged.

Ginny was silent for a moment, her expression unreadable. Harry thought he might explode with tension.

"What did Harry say to me in the Chamber, after he'd saved me? What was the first thing he said to me, when I woke up?"

Harry thought for a moment, trying to ignore the blood thundering in his ears. "I told you that it was alright, and that Riddle was finished, as well as the basilisk. You were worried about what your parents would say, about being expelled…" he drifted off, watching her expression.

She was silent for another moment. A crease formed between her eyebrows. "Where did Harry and I go at Hogwarts, when we wanted to be alone?" Harry smiled a little at the faint blush that tinged her pale cheeks.

"The roof of the Owlery, mostly," he answered quietly. "We'd fly up there on our brooms, and sit there, watching the owls coming and going and trying not to slide off in the snow."

There was another long pause in which Harry's heart threatened to beat right through his ribs. Ginny's face was unreadable for a long while. Then the crease between her eyebrows developed into a frown. She bit her lip. Those brown eyes that made Harry's chest ache with longing were suddenly rather wet.

"Harry?" she asked tentatively, as if testing the name on her lips.

"Yeah," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm back."

She launched herself into his arms.

She clutched him tightly, and Harry couldn't help but tighten his arms around her slim waist. He relished the feeling of her in his arms. He was sorry when she pulled back.

"Oh Harry, I can't believe it! I just… I can't believe it!" Ginny gushed, looking at him as if she were memorizing him. "You've been gone for so long and I thought… we thought… but you're back! You're here now! Oh my God, it feels like a dream! I've had this one so many times before, but I've always woken at the end feeling like dying…"

She held his hands in hers, grasping them so tightly that he thought his fingers might buckle. The sun shone fully upon her face now, and it seemed impossible that she could be this beautiful. The years that Harry had been gone had shaped her face; she was paler, thinner, sadder and more breathtakingly gorgeous than she had ever been. Her brown eyes were bright and expressive, but Harry detected a fatigue beneath the surface that he couldn't remember seeing there before.

A quiet sniff broke the silence between them, and both Harry and Ginny looked down to see the red-haired child standing in the grass at their feet, eyeing Harry dubiously. Harry could see now that the boy couldn't have been older than four, though he stood taller than seemed right for one so young. His little face was serious.

"Oh!" Ginny said, taking the child's outstretched hand, "I forgot about you, sweetheart! This," she gestured to Harry, "is Harry! You were named after him, that's why your names are the same, darling. And Harry," she looked back at him with twinkling eyes, "this is Little Harry."

Feeling awkward and suddenly hot, Harry ducked his head and knelt before the child. "Hello," he said, stretching out his hand and smiling as cheerfully as he could manage. The child hesitated.

"Go on," Ginny urged.

Little Harry put his small hand into Harry's.

"Nice to meet you," he mumbled mechanically, eyes wide.

"And you," Harry responded, and to his surprise, he felt a surge of genuine affection for the little boy. He really was adorable. And, after all, he couldn't help his lineage, nor the fact that Harry was madly in love with his mother. He was just a kid. Harry grinned at him.

"Let's go inside," Ginny suggested. "I'll put on some tea and we'll see about breakfast. How's that my Little?"

Little Harry nodded enthusiastically, forgetting his misgivings concerning Harry and dragging him by the hand toward the house. "Breakfast, breakfast! Can we have bacon?" he crooned happily.

"Yeah, yeah, bacon as usual," Ginny laughed.

"Yay! Bacon, Harry, bacon!"

"Bacon!" Harry answered, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.


	5. Chapter 5

I apologize for the delay. I've got few excuses, aside from the fact that I struggle with uploading. Please enjoy!

Ginny had a thousand questions, and fired them at him in quick succession as she hurried about the small kitchen, preparing breakfast. He answered them as best as he could, but there were too many answers that he just didn't know. His heart felt like lead. As Ginny set a plate piled high with eggs and bacon before him, voicing another query, he heaved a sigh.

"Ginny," he interrupted, "I… I… can't answer anymore questions."

She looked into his eyes. Nodded. "I understand," she said, and laid a soft hand on his shoulder. "I won't ask anymore."

She scooped Little Harry from beneath the table where he'd been playing with a tiny toy wand, and settled him at the table, where he immediately began tackling breakfast with an enthusiasm Harry had only seen demonstrated by one other.

Staring down at the food on his plate, Harry felt his stomach turn. In the shock of seeing Ginny, of meeting his tiny namesake, Harry had forgotten the reason he'd rushed here so urgently. He'd forgotten Ron. He wanted to hit himself.

"Ginny," he said, standing. She seemed to hear the trepidation in his voice, and met his gaze with concern. Harry's knees felt as weak as twigs. "I was at the Burrow," he blurted, "I only got there last night, and I saw the clock and it said… it said…"

Ginny nodded, averting her eyes. "It said that Ron's in mortal danger."

Harry nodded mutely, sick with fear.

Ginny smiled a sad little smile, putting her freckled hands on his shoulders. Her voice, however, was steady and resolute. "Ron's okay, Harry," she said firmly, pushing him back into his chair. He offered little resistance. "He should be here any minute, actually, as alive and safe as you and me."

Harry shook his head, babbling. "But the clock said—"

"I know," Ginny interrupted. "Ron can explain that when he gets here. But trust me, Harry. He's fine. He's alive. You'll see him very soon."

Harry's heart felt like a crazed hummingbird beneath his sternum. He took deliberate, even breaths and repeated to himself the words Ginny had said. _He's okay. Ron's okay. He's as alive and safe as you and me._

He slumped into his chair, chuckling weakly. "Thanks, Gin. I thought… well, I thought the worst. I was nearly mad with worry."

Ginny smiled too, seating herself with a plate of eggs. "You're just the same as you always were, Harry. Worried more about everyone else than you ever were about yourself. Ron's sort of the same, these days, actually."

She closed her eyes, beaming, at a private thought.

"What?" Harry asked.

"I was just thinking," she said, eyes still closed, "how happy he's going to be to see you."

Harry grinned to, and Ron's face filled his memory.

"Harry," Little Harry said suddenly, dragging Harry out of his reverie. His mouth was half full of toast. "Do you know my daddy? He's tall."

"Don't talk with your mouth full, Little," Ginny chided.

Harry's stomach tied itself in knots. He felt a little like vomiting. "Uh… Ginny…"

"Yeah?" she said, preoccupied with unsticking the lid of the jam jar.

"Who… who…" Harry couldn't make himself say the words. He felt his face growing hot.

"Who what, Harry? Little, enough bacon. You've had six slices already."

"Who did you…"

"More bacon!"Little Harry demanded.

"No more bacon!" Ginny snapped. "Spit it out, Harry! What?"

"MORE BACON, AUNTIE GIN!"

"Who did you marr… what?"

Auntie Gin. Little Harry had called her Auntie Gin. Not Mummy… Auntie. Harry's brain got stuck.

"ENOUGH WITH THE BACON, YOU LITTLE GLUTTON!" Ginny snatched the platter of bacon from the table, sending it sailing across the room like a frisbee.

"But I love bacon, Auntie Gin!"

"I don't care, you're going to turn into a little ball of lard if you keep inhaling bacon like its oxygen! For crying out loud, stop eating for a while, why don't you! Just like your fath… Harry, are you alright?"

Harry couldn't seem to process words. The lead in his heart, the knots in his stomach… it all vanished like it had never existed. He suddenly felt lighter than air, giddier than he had any right to feel… but he had to be sure. He has to ask…

"B-but… Little Harry isn't your son?"

Ginny stared at him like he'd sprouted a second nose. Then, she burst into riotous laughter.

"You… You thought…" she gasped, "You thought that… I was… his mother? Bahaha!"

"You let me think that!" Harry cried defensively. "You called him sweetheart, tickled him, talked about his father!"

"I'm not his mother, you dolt!" Ginny wheezed. "I'm not even married!"

Harry couldn't help the delighted grin that stretched across his face. "You're not married."

Ginny's laughter faded into the brightest smile she'd given him yet. Her eyes sparkled like water. "Of course I'm not married," she said, a flush stealing over her freckled cheeks. "I've been in love with you since I was a little girl, Harry. I couldn't just forget about you just because of the little fact that you, for all intents and purposes, died. I couldn't do it. You idiot, I'm not married because _you_ were the one I supposed to be married to!"

And she dragged him to his feet and kissed him like they'd never been apart. Like she wasn't six years older than him. Like they'd never be apart again.

"Eew."

Harry broke away from Ginny, suddenly conscious of the little boy still seated at the breakfast table, eying them with disgust. He blinked for a moment, trying to clear the fireworks from his vision.

"But," he said, meeting Ginny's gaze, "If Little Harry isn't yours then whose is he?"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "As unobservant as ever, I see," she muttered. Taking him by the hand, she sat him down at the table, next to Little Harry and pointed at the child, who looked at them both with confusion.

"Look at him."

"I am."

"No, _look_ at him. See anything familiar?"

And Harry looked. The little boy gazed back at him with wide blue eyes, as clear and piercing as the summer sky. His pale face was dusted with freckles, all across his small nose and round cheeks, and his long, skinny arms lay folded under his chin. His front teeth were rather too large for the rest of him, and parted his jam-stained lips in an oddly familiar way. Hair as vibrantly red as Ginny's stood out all over, clouded thickly around his head in a sort of bushy way…

"Oh my God!" Harry cried, leaping to his feet and pointing at Little Harry in a kind of frightening manner. The boy, at any rate, looked at Ginny, alarmed. "Oh my God! _Hermione_!"

"And he's got it," Ginny said.

Harry thought of the boy, standing in the garden in pajamas that were slightly too small for his strangely long little body…

"And Ron!" he yelled triumphantly. "Hermione and Ron… _Oh my God, Hermione and Ron!_"

Ginny laughed her bright laugh. "Yes!"

"They are… they had a… _together?_"

"Yes, that's generally how it works," Ginny answered happily.

"But…" Harry's voice cracked a little insanely, "But… They… Bloody _hell_!"

"Oddly enough, that's along the lines of what Ron said when he found out, four years ago. But I'll thank you not to say it again in front of—"

Harry didn't hear. He had leapt at his small namesake, who gave a startled little yelp, and seized him around the middle, hoisting him into the air with a booming laugh that sounded uncharacteristically jubilant, even to his own ears.

"Your father's Ron!" he cried, and the little boy nodded, a smile playing at his little Hermione-like lips. "And he _is_ tall!"

"Yeah, he is," Little Harry said, warming quite suddenly to this strange man who'd just pounced on him. "He's tall!"

"You are the handsomest child I've ever seen!" Harry shouted, swinging a guffawing Little Harry around. "I never thought I'd see the day… But I knew someday I would! I _knew_ it!"

Ginny was smiling so widely it seemed her face might break in two. "Harry!" she laughed. Both Harrys looked. She gestured to the larger. "Big Harry! Stop swinging him about like that, he might hurl on you!"

"I won't hurl on him, Auntie Gin," Little Harry declared, but Harry placed him back into his seat anyway. He couldn't shake the grin from his face, his heart felt ready to burst with happiness. Ginny still loved him… after all these years, she still loved him. And Hermione, and Ron! Together, as he'd known that they should be! And they'd had a _child_! He didn't think anything could damper the joy that filled him.

Cracks echoed in the yard, and he spun to face the window.

Ginny's hands were at his elbow. "It'll be Ron," she said. "And Percy, maybe. Only Weasleys can Apparate on this area; only Weasleys know we're here."

Harry relaxed a little, and his grip loosened on his wand. But the pressure in his stomach remained. He was about to see Ron, who was in mortal peril, but apparently was not. Ron, who had made this wonderful, adorable child with his Hermione, who'd really always been his. Ron, who had lived for seven years without Harry…

Little Harry jumped to the ground and raced to the door; he tugged it open and scrambled out into the morning. He was greeted with laughter that was so familiar it made Harry's heart ache.

"Harry!" a voice cried, a voice that the elder Harry knew as well as his own. "How's my boy?"

"Daddy!"

"Jammy, I see. We've had breakfast, eh? How was the bacon?"

"Auntie Gin wouldn't let me have more than six pieces, Daddy! She called me a little glutton."

"How dare she? Did she call you a ball of lard, too?"

"Yeah, she did!"

"Well that's just unacceptable, my Little! You know, she used to call me the very same names? How cruel! How callous! I shall have a word with her, my boy, and if she won't listen to reason, we must have a duel!"

A childish gasp. "A duel?"

"Certainly! A duel, in defense of the honor of my jammy son! She'll crumble, Harry, I'm sure of it!"

Harry was filled with an emotion that he couldn't name. It was an intoxicating combination of pride, pain, love, exhilaration, joy… Ron's voice filled in a hole in his heart he hadn't known had been there… A hole, he supposed, that had been carved there when he'd watched his best friend dying on the battlefield. He listened to the voices in the garden as if they were music.

"Want to stay for breakfast, Perce? I'm sure Ginny's made enough."

Another familiar voice spoke. "Oh, alright. I suppose I've got to, now that this little tattletale has spotted me. He'll tell Auntie Gin that I was here and that I passed up her breakfast, and she'll never forgive me!"

"I'm no tattletale, Uncle Perce!" Little Harry rebutted, "I'll tell Auntie Gin you're calling me names, and then Daddy will duel you and make you crumble!"

Laughter drifted through the open window. "Will you, now? Well then I shall have to recite to you Warlock Greenbugg's Thirteen Bylaws, from the fourth directive of the Dueling Charter of 1823, and prove to you that dueling in a garden is thoroughly illegal, you scoundrel!"

"Dueling in a _pasture_, Uncle Perce! Greenbugg said dueling in a pasture is bad, and you're in the garden, so it's okay!"

"Sometimes," Ron's low voice said, "it frightens me how much smarter my four-year-old son is than me."

The door swung open; footsteps banged in the hall. And before Harry could prepare himself, before he could even turn to face the kitchen doorway, Ron came bustling in.

"Smells good, Ginny," he said, peering down at his golden pocket watch. "But it's awfully early, isn't…"

His voice died away. His eyes met Harry's. There was a viscous silence that numbed the air.

Ron's pocket watch ticked away a second.

Another second.

A third.

Ron took the kitchen in three long strides and threw his long arms around Harry.

"I knew you'd be back," he said into Harry's shoulder. "I knew it."

Harry clutched him like a lifeline, unable to form words. He was dimly aware of a pale-faced Percy gaping at him from the doorway, and Ginny whispering rapidly in his ear. He couldn't seem to keep up with everything that had happened, that continued to happen. His mouth flapped silently.

Ron pulled away, hands on Harry's shoulders, and met his gaze with clear, blue eyes like a summer sky… eyes that Harry never knew he'd noticed before now, when they were the most wonderfully familiar thing he could imagine. A grin stretched across Ron's face, and Harry saw that tears swam in his eyes.

"I've been waiting, ever since that day… waiting for you to show up again, and prove that you weren't dead. But still… I can't believe it, Harry… it's too good to be true!"

He turned to grin at his brother and sister, pointing at Harry. "My best friend, back from the dead!"

"Daddy," little Harry said from his seat at the table, which he had reclaimed, "Harry knows you. Says that you're tall and that I'm handsome." A smug little smile formed on his lips, which reminded Harry so completely of Hermione that he could almost hear her self-satisfied, eleven-year-old voice.

He turned back to Ron, who was staring at him the same way Ginny had: like he was memorizing his face. "He is," Harry rambled. "He's wonderful, the most wonderful kid I've ever met, Ron, and I can't believe he's _yours_."

Ron chortled that memorable laugh. "Yeah, he's too smart for his own good, right? No four-year-old should talk like that, I say. But he's just like his mother; brightest wizard of his age! Ha!"

Harry laughed with him, but realized, all at once, that something was not right.

Ron was as boisterous and loud and comical as he'd ever been, but he looked… thin. Wan. _Sickly._ Harry stepped back, assessing him.

He was skinny; skinnier than Harry had ever known him to be, though his proportions had tilted toward manhood in the seven years since he'd known him. His face was pale and drawn in a way that reminded Harry rather forcibly of Remus Lupin, days before the full moon. His eyes were ringed in shadow.

"Ron," he said, "What's happened to you?"

Ron's ears turned red, and he looked away. "There's time for that later, Harry. I want to know where you've been, what happened that night, why you haven't… Harry, are those school robes?" Ron scrutinized him carefully, and he felt Percy's and Ginny's eyes on his as well. He shifted uncomfortably.

"You look," Ron said, "exactly the same. Exactly… seventeen years old, almost eighteen, right? No change at all…"

Ron turned to face his brother, who stood silently beside his sister. His eyes were round behind his horn-rimmed glasses.

"Perce!" Ron said. "I think… I think we were right, when we theorized that he'd been sent to the future!"

Percy blinked owlishly, looking as if he'd been Stunned. "It does… look that way, doesn't it?" he stammered, staring agape at Harry.

"Is that what happened, Harry?" Ron pressed, eying him intently.

"Yeah, yeah that's right," Harry responded, a little bewildered. "But how'd you—"

"When did you get here, Harry?" Percy asked, approaching rather cautiously. "To this time?"

"Er… last night. Charlie and Bill found me. Charlie, Bill and your father. They thought I was a Polyjuiced Death Eater, didn't believe me until Fred and George used… some kind of potion to prove it to everyone…"

A thought occurred to Harry. Turning to Ron, he asked, "How did you know it was me? Everyone else has had to ask questions. How did you know?"

Ron shrugged, smiling at him. "I just knew. Saw it in your eyes."

Harry felt suddenly warm.


	6. Chapter 6

"So, last you remember you were on the battlefield at Hogwarts, facing that horde of Death Eaters?"

"Yeah. Next thing I knew, I was lying in the road and your brothers were hollering at me."

Ron whistled, leaning back in the rickety porch chair. He stared out across the lawn, watching Little Harry chase Crookshanks around, shaking his head.

"It's hard to get your mind around, you know?" he said. "You were there, and now you're here… but where were you in between?"

Harry shrugged.

"Percy and I have come up with dozens of theories," Ron explained. "We researched everything we could think of… time travel was one of our ideas, but we could only follow that vein for so long. There was nothing we could do, no way to rescue you. So we moved on to other ideas, hoping that, if you _were_ lost in the time stream or making quantum leaps or whatever the hell it is Percy called it, that you'd come back within our lifetimes."

"It's lucky I did," Harry said, shuddering. "What if I'd shown up a hundred years from now? or a thousand?"

"I don't want to think about it, mate," Ron said, shuddering himself.

"What about Hermione?" Harry asked, absently stroking little Pig, who had situated himself on his shoulder, once more. "She ought to know a bit about time travel, what with her experience with the Time-Turner. Didn't you ask her?"

Ron suddenly looked very uncomfortable. He shifted in his chair, avoiding Harry's gaze.

"Harry," he said after an awkward pause, "There's something you ought to know."

Something in the quiet, strained tone of Ron's voice made Harry's stomach twist itself into knots, again. He leaned forward, trying to catch Ron's eye.

"What?" he asked, though he found he didn't want to know the answer.

"Hermione's dead."

Ron spat the words out like something foul, like he didn't want to keep them too long in his mouth or they might sting him. It took Harry a long, agonizing second to register the meaning of those poisonous words.

Then, it hit him with the force of a train.

"She… what?"

Ron sighed, looking up at Harry with eyes so full of anguish that it hurt to meet them. "She died, Harry. Three years ago."

Harry reeled back, dumbfounded and astonished and agonized.

Hermione. His friend Hermione, who had saved his life too many times to count, who had checked his homework and borrowed his owl and ridden with him on the Hogwarts Express and eaten breakfast with him and tutored him in basically every class… Hermione, who had fought with them against a troll and had told Ron he had dirt on his nose…

"Oh no," he rasped, and dissolved into tears.

It was a very long time before he realized that Ron's hand was on his back, and his voice was in his ear, murmuring soft words of comfort.

"It's okay, Harry, it's okay… She didn't feel any pain, just like your mum and dad… just like Sirius and Dumbledore…"

"But Ron," he said, peering through his tears at his best friend, who'd loved Hermione and lost her. "You… and she… your son."

Ron nodded solemnly, his eyes brimming with sorrow. "Little Harry doesn't remember her. He was only one when she died, just like you. He doesn't know what he's missing. And I…" here, he paused, closing his eyes, "I've done my mourning, Harry. Three years of it."

"Are you… alright?"

Ron smiled grimly. "Not really, no. I won't lie to you, Harry… it was hard. I was lost, for a pretty long time. I'd lost you, and then I lost her… I didn't know a person could be so lonely. I never thought that out of the three of us, I would be the last one left. She was everything to me, after you were gone. But I had to let her go… for a while at least." He smiled in a strange way that made Harry want to ask what he meant, but he held back. He let Ron speak.

"I'm as happy as I can be without her, and that's fine. I've got my Harry," he smiled out at his son, who was still terrorizing the cat, "and my family. And now I've got you back, and things are okay."

Things didn't feel okay to Harry. His heart throbbed in a way that he had never felt… not even when Sirius died. Not even when he watched Dumbledore fall. He didn't know what to do with this pain.

"How… how did she die?"

Ron's answer was quiet, his eyes on Little Harry. He didn't want his son to overhear, Harry realized with a renewed pang of sadness.

"Death Eaters," he said. "They knew that we were at the head of the resistance, that she was the mastermind. They'd been after us since you died. I'm not surprised that they found us, despite all the protection she and the rest of the Order had surrounded us with. I saved Harry. She died fighting."

Harry felt cold, despite the summer sunshine that bathed the porch. He swallowed a few times before he could speak.

"I'm… I'm sorry, Ron. I'm really sorry."

Ron smiled at him in a brotherly kind of way. "I am too. But you know, it's nice to have someone who understands. Someone who loved her almost as much as I did… who feels the same pain I do when I think about her. For a while, I thought the only one who missed her as much as me was Crookshanks."

Ron laughed, but it sounded forced. Harry nodded, blinded once more by tears.

Without really intending to, Harry reached out and curled his arms around Ron's back. They clung to one another until the shoulders of their robes were soaked through.

The night was warm and the sky was black. Harry could smell rain in the breeze. It pushed his shaggy hair back away from his forehead, skimmed over the skin of his cheeks like smooth fingers. He closed his eyes against the draft, sucking in a great breath that filled his chest with fresh feel of rain. He crossed his arms over his chest.

"Are you alright?"

Harry turned his face back toward the house, aglow with the warm light of the fireplace within. Silhouetted in the yellow glow, her hair falling in a brightly backlit curtain, radiant even in the darkness, stood Ginny.

"Yeah," he murmured, forcing a little smile. "I'm fine. Just… thinking."

Ginny stepped forward and drew level with him, looking out into the blackness. Harry heard a smile in her low voice.

"You don't seem fine."

Harry swallowed, fixing his gaze upon the shadowed shape of a tree. He was silent for a long moment, hesitant.

Then, the words erupted from him in an impulsive surge.

"What's wrong with him?"

Ginny stiffened at his side. Her hands met at her chest, fingers plucking at one another in an endearingly familiar way… a way that Harry knew indicated that she was reluctantly hiding something. He slid his hands into his pockets, biting his tongue.

"What's wrong with… who?" she asked shiftily. He noted a distinct blush coloring her pale cheeks.

Harry chuckled dejectedly, nudging her playfully with his elbow. "Come on, you know you can't lie to me, Gin." He tried to still the tremor he heard in his voice. "What's… what's wrong with Ron?"

She deliberately looked away, back toward her home. "Why… why do you ask that?"

"I have eyes Ginny," Harry sighed. "He's pale, and he walks so cautiously, always so _careful_… and when I hugged him, when I felt him in my arms, Gin… he was so thin, so painfully _thin_. Is this… Is it Hermione? Has he let her death make him… make him sick?"

She was a long time answering. Harry forced himself to wait, not to rush to her. He held his breath, biting back the persistent words he longed to blurt. And finally, after a long, excruciating pause…

"I don't think…" Her voice broke off. She closed her eyes. "I don't think I'm the one you should be asking this."

Harry turned to face her, fixing her with his most penetrating stare. He hoped the light was catching his eyes; Ginny had never been able to resist his mother's eyes. "Ginny," he pleaded. "Ginny, please."

She whirled around abruptly and blindly slapped her hands over his eyes.

Harry stood gaping, stunned.

"Don't you use those eyes on me, Harry," Ginny hissed furiously into his ear. "Don't you dare! You know exactly what those things do to me; you know I can't say no to them. But I'll tell you something, Harry Potter, and you ought to listen close: I've learned a few things in the years you were dead. I've dreamed of that exact shade of green for seven years; I've recalled your every trait… your every mannerism. I know your tricks better than anyone; I know how underhanded you are! So before you can look at me with that perfect gleam in your perfect eyes and wring answers out of me, just let me say this: _this isn't my secret to tell. _I won't go behind my brother's back just because I'm a sucker. Go ask him."

And she swiveled swiftly in a fan of auburn hair and hurried across the lawn and inside, without a second glance.

Harry blinked dumbly as the screen door slammed. His thoughts spun uncontrollably.

He felt a distinct sense of shame; Ginny's voice echoing in his ears. He'd known that asking Ginny hadn't been the right way to go about getting answers, he admitted to himself. He knew that Ron wouldn't like it at all. But the opportunity had presented itself… and yes, he'd admittedly thought he could "wring" answers out of her. Feeling unusually conscious of his own eyes, he lowered them, feeling his cheeks grow hot at Ginny's words. For the first time in his life, he suddenly wished they were a nondescript brown.

He sighed heavily, feeling the knots in his stomach redouble.

There was only one option.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: Um... hello. I'm sure anyone who's left waiting for the rest of this story is probably a little angry with me for being a deserter. With good reason. I hope this freshly written chapter makes up for my disappearance so long ago. Enjoy!

"Ron?"

Ron looked up from his place on the rug, his eyes bright with laughter. Little Harry tugged cheerfully on his shirt.

"Yeah?" he answered breathlessly. "What's up, Harry?"

Harry swallowed nervously a few times, eyeing Ron's lively son. "Can I, er… can I talk to you, for a minute?"

"Sure, mate." He set the child on his feet, slapping his rear with a gentle hand. "Go find Aunt Gin, Little. Tell her I've sent you for your polishing."

The child gave his father a dubious look, but scurried from the living room without protest. Ron gestured to the rug beside him, inviting Harry to sit.

"'Polishing'," he chortled conspiratorially. "It's our most recent code for 'bath'. We have to change it every now and again, smart little bugger that he is. He'll catch on any day and we'll have to come up with a new one…"

Harry gave a strained smile. Ron saw through it immediately.

He sat up a little straighter, meeting Harry's eye with an even gaze. "What's wrong?"

Harry tried to even out his features, tried to smooth the anxiety from his expression. Ron scoffed.

"Knock it off, Harry," he said, rolling his eyes. "You're not fooling anybody. Tell me what's bothering you, or I'll have to start guessing. You know I'm not a very good guesser."

Harry's mouth worked up and down, his mind striving to find the right words. His breath whooshed out of him in short huffs, over and over again.

Ron flopped backward, sighing dramatically. "You… met your long lost evil brother, and he's a dolphin."

Harry let loose a panicky burst of laughter. He struggled to find his voice.

"You've found out that my mother is a Veela."

Harry choked on a guffaw.

"You've lost your lucky charm bracelet."

Harry shook his head, face hot.

"You—"

Harry's hand clapped over his best friend's mouth.

"Enough!" he gasped. "Shut up and I'll talk!"

Ron clamped his lips together as he removed his hand, nodding obediently.

Harry's heart thrummed beneath his sternum; his head ached with the anxiety that radiated in his bones. But before he could think about it, before his voice could desert him again, he forced himself to blurt the words. "What's wrong with you?"

There was a brief silence during which Harry watched Ron with apprehension, and Ron stared at Harry with eyes wide with surprise. The moment dragged on; the tension was palpable in the fire-warmed air. Then…

"Well that's a rude thing to ask," Ron murmured, but his expression was softened by humor.

"You know what I mean."

The smirk bled from his face, replaced by a look of thoughtful, tragic openness. He smiled in a frank sort of way that shattered Harry's thrashing heart. "I know."

"So?"

Ron's blue eyes were piercing in the dim orange flicker. He didn't look away from Harry, as if he were trying to speak to him with only that look. Harry bit his lip.

"Well," Ron said slowly, heaving a deep shaky breath. "Don't freak out."

Harry remained silent.

Ron shrugged, shifted, then spoke.

"I'm dying."

The words didn't quite register. Harry blinked once. Twice. The air around him suddenly felt sweltering and oppressive, and Harry realized with a jolt that he was standing on his feet.

Ron was on his feet the space of a heartbeat. "I told you not to freak, Harry! Just… just relax and sit down and let me explain, okay? Okay?"

The hot, thick air wouldn't seem to fit into his burning lungs. Harry could feel his mouth working soundlessly.

"Sit!" Ron demanded. Harry's knees crumpled of their own accord. Ron's hand was on his back and his voice was rumbling in his ears, but it all felt… off. Wrong.

_Dying._ Ron was… dying…

His voice came free with an anguished cry.

"_What_?"

Ron seemed taken aback. His face was no longer calm; he looked a little… panicked. Alarmed. Afraid.

"What the hell does that mean?" Harry snarled, a little hysterically. "What… what the… _how?_"

Ron's hands fluttered pointlessly around Harry, abstractly reminding him of Mrs. Weasley's frenzied fussing. His ears were a telltale shade of scarlet. "Just have a breath, Harry!" he wailed uneasily. "I'll explain, I swear!"

Harry's voice was vicious. "Explain, then!"

Ron nodded submissively, watching him warily… like he was afraid he'd implode. His voice was anxious and course, but a determined hardness glimmered in his eyes. "What you've got to understand," he began, "is that this is no one's fault. It was unavoidable, really, considering my luck. So you can't blame yourself, okay?"

Harry shook his head, opening his mouth.

"No!"Ron interrupted, holding up his hand. "I won't tell you anymore if you're going to go all 'tormented hero' on me. I know you pretty well Harry, despite these last few years, and I know that you blame yourself for _everything_. So, just this once, don't."

He didn't wait for a response. It seemed that he wanted to spit the words out all at once. Like they'd hurt less for both of them if he hurled them out quickly.

"You were there when it happened," he said. "It was just before you… you know, disappeared. I don't know how much you remember, but I, ah, got… hit. Taken out."

Harry spoke so quietly he could hardly hear his own hoarse murmur. "Of course I remember. I thought you were…"

Ron nodded. "Me too. I thought I was a goner. It... hurt pretty bad, and I was bleeding a lot. I tried to be strong so you wouldn't be distracted, so you could do what you had to do. But even if you defeated You-Know-Who then and there, I really didn't think there'd be time to save me…"

Harry made an involuntary sound, somewhere between a whimper and a moan. Ron penetrated his friend with a hard stare, icy blue. "But I don't regret it, Harry," he affirmed in a voice like hot steel. "I'll never regret it, as long as live. And even after."

Harry buried his hands in his hair.

"Anyway," Ron continued, "I watched you disappear; I saw the Death Eaters curse you from all sides, and I saw… saw you vanish. I was pretty out of it, mind you, but I remember it fairly clearly, all things considered. I nearly tore my throat up, calling your name.

"I guess the Death Eaters took me for dead, or knew I would be soon, because when they bolted they just left me lying there. They gloated shamelessly before they scarpered, though, the cowards. I wanted to make them pay for whatever they did to you, the bleeding idiots, but I, uh…" he blushed, twisting his fingers in his hair, "I couldn't breathe so well, just then."

"Anyway, Percy came and found me and took to me to the hospital. They cleaned me up… but it turned out that the curse that took me out was a… er…particularly nasty one."

Harry saw Ron's hand move absently to lay across his stomach. Through the beleaguered mayhem that distorted his thoughts, Harry discerned the unhealthy pallor his friend's white face, the faraway look in his troubled eyes. It sent a bitter shudder along Harry's spine.

"It doesn't kill right way, otherwise I'd have been toast before I hit the ground. No, this one spreads slowly, takes it out of you until there's… well, until there's nothing left to take. And unfortunately, it's… er… irreversible."

Harry watched him intently, attempting to comprehend what had been said. Ron's distant expression faded as their eyes met, and Ron smiled the tolerant smile of a dying man. Harry fought to speak past the swollen mass in his throat.

"So all this time," he croaked, "all these years, you've been…"

"Mm-hmm."

"And the clock?"

"You saw that, huh? Yeah, 'mortal peril'… sort of lost its dramatic effect a few years back…"

Harry felt ill. "Oh my…"

Ron patted his shoulder awkwardly. "Yeah."

"And your… your family?"

Ron sighed thickly, folding his long legs and lacing his fingers behind his head. "They're okay. They took it pretty hard at first, I guess, but they're coming to terms with it, sort of. Don't really have much of a choice, eh?" He released a little chuckle, but it fell dead at the look on Harry's face.

"Not a time for joking." He grimaced. "Got it. Anyway, my brothers are pretty depressing around me, these days. Can't even walk in a room without them pulling mournful faces and trying to be all… sensitive. Let me tell you, Weasleys aren't built to be sensitive. Believe it or not, Percy's been the coolest. Yeah, I know. _Percy_! But even he's gotten awfully gloomy lately…

"But Ginny… Ginny's been great. Really great! She doesn't treat me much differently than she ever did; she makes me feel like I'm just _Ron_ again. And she's great with Little; most of the time he likes her more than he likes me."

Harry smiled involuntarily then, and was instantly filled with a sudden surge of shame. He shouldn't be smiling now. He should never smile again.

"What about Hermione?" he asked, to sidestep the topic of Ginny.

Ron's face illuminated; he was transformed with a light Harry couldn't see. The surprising radiance that ignited his eyes filled Harry's chest with a warmth that scorched him.

"Hermione." He uttered her name like a private prayer. "Hermione… well, she took it harder than anyone, in the beginning. Especially because you were gone. We were both in a pretty dark place, Harry. We had no one else, no one else understood what we'd lost when we lost you… not even Ginny."

He seemed unable to meet Harry's eyes.

"But weirdly enough, losing you and getting cursed… I guess it was enough to kick us into action." He smiled sheepishly, shifting a little uncomfortably. "It wasn't long before we figured out what you and apparently everyone else had known for ages."

Harry allowed himself a smirk. The searing ache in his chest diminished a little, as Hermione's face hovered before his eyes. "Well, tell me how it happened, then," he said, a little sheepishly. "I always wondered if it would, back when we were kids. And in the last few years I imagined, you know, being your best man at your wedding and being 'Dad's cool friend' to your kids… I always hoped I'd get to see it all, someday…"

Ron's ears were crimson, but his teeth flashed in his signature grin. "Well it wasn't quite as 'fairy tale' as all that," he contested. "It just… happened one night, at St. Mungo's. A Tuesday, I think. She just barreled in one night, long after visiting hours were over and said to me in her bossiest Hermione voice: 'Ron Weasley, you are a stupid fool for almost killing yourself, and Harry was a stupid fool for getting himself killed, and I will never forgive either of you! That being said, I love you.' And then, she up and kissed me." Ron's low laugh flooded the room, and his smile infected Harry.

"Nice impression," Harry commented.

"Years of practice, mate."

Harry tried to picture it. He tried to imagine the look on Ron's face, the tone of Hermione's voice, the clean scent of St. Mungo's… The scene flickered unsteadily before his closed eyes, like an old film, and he beamed at the vision. "Awesome."

"Yeah," Ron replied with a contented grin. "It was."

They fell silent together, and the only sound was the soothing crackle of the fire and the hushed breath of the wind against the window panes. If Harry closed his eyes, if he let his anxiety and fear and sadness melt away for just one moment, he could almost believe that he was back in the common room on an autumn evening, playing a game of carefree chess with Ron or plugging away at homework under Hermione's watchful scrutiny… or watching Ginny run her fingers through her copper hair…

The iridescent calm was abruptly shattered by a crack in the yard, followed by a harsh cry.

"Ron! Ginny! Get up, get up! Are you here? Tell me you're all here!"

The warmth drained from Harry's chest like water.


	8. Chapter 8

"Ron! Ginny! Get up, get up! Are you here? Tell me you're all here!"

The warmth drained from Harry's chest like water.

The door burst inward with a bang. George Weasley surged in, flinging it closed behind him; his eyes were wide and roving. When they settled on Ron, standing startled by the fire, he let out an explosive sigh.

"Oh, thank God!" he breathed, clutching at his heaving chest. "Thank God. Tell me Ginny's here! Where's Little?"

"Both here," Harry offered, hurrying forward to clutch George's elbow. The man looked on the verge of collapse; his face was chalk-white. "What's happened?"

"George!" Ginny cried, tumbling down the stairs, "What's wrong?"

George glanced grimly at Ron, who untied his brother's disheveled cloak and pulled it from his shuddering shoulders. Harry led him to the sofa. With a bleak laugh, George sank into the worn cushions.

"What hasn't happened?" he asked wryly, massaging his temples between the heels of his trembling hands.

"Is everyone alright?" Ron begged, face ashen. "Where's Fred?"

"Everyone's alive, Ronnie," George reassured, patting his brother's shoulder distractedly. "Every one's safe, for now."

"Then what the hell happened, George?" barked Ginny.

"Fred's and my flat was attacked."

The briefest of silences ensued. Then…

"What?"

"When?"

"Who was there?"

"Fred?"

"When?"

"_How_?"

"Shut up a minute and I'll tell you!" George bellowed over the cacophony of questions. They immediately fell quiet, staring with fearful eyes.

"It happened about an hour ago. It was only Fred, Percy and me there, working on… well, on something we shouldn't talk about. The wards must have been broken somehow, because they Apparated straight onto the doormat and came stampeding in like they owned the place. Needless to say… we were caught a bit off guard."

Harry swallowed, biting back a hundred questions.

"There were about a dozen of them. Lucky Percy's a quick draw, or the three of us would have been toast when the first one barged in. We fought 'em as best as we could, and Fred and I collected up the important things… the stuff we wouldn't want the Death Eaters to get their grubby hands on… and we scarpered, quick as we could. Fred took a weird curse, but Lupin's looked at it and it looks like he'll be fine. Percy came out pretty bloody. Mum's patched him up; I think he's alright. I came here right away."

"Why'd you come, George?" Ron asked, voice low and serious.

George fixed him with a smoldering stare. Harry's heart did several back flips inside his chest.

"They were looking for you, Ronnie."

To Harry's amazement, Ron didn't seem overly surprised. He nodded in a thoughtful sort of way; brow wrinkled with the subtlest of frowns. Pressing his lips together, he turned away toward the dying fire.

George continued, watching Ron with concern that he didn't bother to try and conceal. "I thought that if they'd found our flat… if they'd found us, maybe they'd found you, too. I thought… God, I thought for sure I'd find you all dead. Or worse."

Ginny curled her arms around George's shoulders, resting her head against his bright hair. He closed his eyes. "You're very brave."

"No," he laughed halfheartedly, "just reckless. Lupin told me expressly not to come here alone. I heard him ordering me just as I Disapparated."

As if on cue, three more cracks sounded in the dark front yard. Drawing out his wand, Harry rushed to the door and flung it open with a curse on his lips. A familiar face advanced out of the darkness.

"It's us, Harry," Arthur murmured cautiously. He held his empty hands up in surrender. "Charlie, Remus Lupin and myself."

"What did Mr. Weasley tell me on Platform 9 ¾, when we thought Sirius was after me?" Harry demanded hoarsely, staring at the man with what he hoped was venom. His heart beating a sharp rhythm against his throat. He tried to concentrate on maintaining a steady hold on his wand.

"I told you not to go after him," Arthur explained in a soft murmur. "I was afraid you'd seek him out and get yourself into trouble… which you promptly did."

Harry's instincts urged him to turn these three away, no matter what answers they furnished. His protective nature insisted he guard his friends with no exception, that he send them away amid a flurry of curses. But he knew these men, and his heart whispered to him (past the deafening hammer of his pulse) that they were genuine. Reluctantly, he lowered his wand.

Arthur moved past him without another word, seeking his children. Charlie exchanged weak smiles with Harry, then quickly ducked into the house.

And Harry found himself face-to-face with Remus Lupin.

Lupin's eye was bright in the undulating light of Harry's wandtip… he wore a tattered leather eye patch over the left eye socket, and from beneath it spread a pale, spidery-looking scar which branched over his cheek in jagged lines. Looking at it elicited a rigid shudder along Harry's spine. Remus' hair was longer and more ragged than Harry remembered; he'd normally kept it tidy and combed when they'd known one another, in another time. His hand shook as he hesitantly reached out traced, with a feather light touch, the frames of Harry's scratched glasses.

That instant must have lasted an age. Harry watched as emotion after emotion flickered across the man's haggard face: astonishment, dread, disbelief, sorrow, and finally, after a silence that clenched his chest like an iron vice… elation.

Without a word, without explanation, Lupin swept him into his crushing arms.

Harry clutched his former professor's frayed old robes, surprised and a little embarrassed to find himself swimming in hot tears. He couldn't think of a thing to say, his tongue seemed to be glued to the roof of his mouth, but it didn't seem like Lupin expected him to talk. So he simply hugged him back, and remembered what it felt like to be loved.

"Arthur told me, but I didn't believe it," Lupin finally rasped. "Not until this moment. I'm so very glad to see you, my boy. So… so happy."

Harry nodded against his shoulder, blinking ferociously. "Me too," he croaked wetly.

At length, they drew apart. Lupin's eye slid back and forth, studying every surface and plane of Harry's face with rare tenderness in his expression. Harry squirmed awkwardly under that scrutinizing eye, blushing faintly as he absorbed the changes in Lupin's demeanor.

"You look just the same…"

"Yeah, that's what I keep hearing," Harry replied, finally ushering Lupin inside. The door closed with a click. Harry murmured a few protective spells, just in case, before turning back to Lupin. "You, on the other hand…"

Remus smiled solemnly and dragged his fingers roughly through his hair, glancing down at his threadbare robes. "I suppose I must seem a little rougher around the edges than when you last saw me," he admitted with a weak laugh. "These times aren't kind to mutinous old werewolves, if you can believe it. I imagine I'm almost as high on the list of Unmentionables as Ron is, nowadays; I've certainly earned the Galleons on my head."

He stripped off his winter cloak while he spoke, dropping it onto a hook and rolling his thin shoulders stiffly. Turning to face Harry again, he caught his gaze with a bright-eyed look. "These are dark days you've fallen into, Harry; I'm sure you realized that," he remarked quietly. "For those of us who refuse to yield to Voldemort and his Death Eaters, the Wizarding World has become a deathtrap."

It occurred to Harry, all at once, how terribly foolish he'd been since arriving in this time. He'd been concerned only for his friends and himself, so wrapped up in the future they'd been dealt that he'd neglected to consider the world as a whole. What was happening out there, beyond the relative safety of these walls?

"Remus," he murmured, careful to keep his voice low enough for the Weasleys' loud discussion in the adjacent room to muffle his voice. "What about the Muggles? What's happening to them, to everyone?"

Lupin's worn face tightened into a haggard, troubled expression. "Things aren't looking good for Muggles, Harry," he said in a hoarse half-whisper. "They're still in the dark, somehow. Still unaware of the great peril they unwittingly face each day. But that isn't to say they're completely ignorant, certainly not. They know something is wrong; I've seen it in their news programs and papers. They can see the darkness, too. Their governments have blamed it all on devastating plagues, on natural disasters and bombings and shootings; they happen all over the world, these days. None of them know exactly who it is that's attacking them; to them the Death Eaters are faceless and merciless terrorists, motives unknown. I believe they call them The Activists, for lack of a more accurate title. Thousands have been killed since you disappeared. I don't know how much longer they'll remain unaware; there must be a breaking point."

"Thousands.." Harry echoed miserably. "That's… that's awful."

"Yes. Yes it is. We've been struggling to protect them, as many as we could… but we can only do so much. Voldemort's lies appealed to many in this world, Harry. His chaos has spread like a disease."

A thought suddenly occurred to Harry, and he blurted it before he had time to wonder. "Do you…" he stammered, "do you happen to know what happened to my aunt and uncle? Or Dudley, maybe?"

Remus sighed, shaking his head. "I'm sorry," he said, "We lost track of them several years back. Hermione insisted we look after them, said that you wouldn't want them killed, despite how horrible they were to you. But things got so out of control and horrific , and they vanished in the chaos."

Harry's stomach clenched just a little tighter. He didn't know why he cared; the Dursleys had never given him the remotest reason to feel worry over them. But all the same… the thought of his relatives, so happy in their small, empty, mundane world, being tossed into the cruelty and hatred that Voldemort had awakened in the world… it made him sad. He couldn't explain it.

"Well, thanks for trying," he nodded to Remus. "I appreciate it."

Remus smiled sadly at him, clapping a hand to his shoulder. "You're a good man, Harry."

Looking around him and into the adjacent room, at these sad and careworn faces of people who had once known peace and happiness, who had counted on him years ago, and whom he'd deserted… he didn't think he was as good as Remus thought. He didn't think himself a good man at all.


End file.
